


Turn This Up

by Trojie



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Drunk Sex, I bastardised the plot of 'Step Up' for this, M/M, Teenage Drama, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:16:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pupils at Xavier's School for Gifted Dancers get assigned dance partners for a senior project. It's supposed to give them a challenge. Bobby Drake gets, in this order, a detention, Rihanna, an argument, drunk, Nine Inch Nails, and laid. In short, Bobby Drake gets John Allerdyce. The word 'challenge' is an understatement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. you say you got nothin', so come out and get some

**Author's Note:**

> Written for X-Men Reverse Bang round 3, inspired by the gorgeous art of Imera <3

Professor Logan, who's technically Bobby Drake's friend Marie's coach for rock'n'roll but who seems to spend most of his time doling out gruff wisdom and smoking behind the school hall, says that it doesn't matter how hard you practise. 

'Cos dancing ain't about being perfect,' he drawls, pulling the stub end of his cigar out of his mouth and inspecting it. The last vestiges of Bobby's sad little junior year crush admire the way it makes Logan's arm muscles move - the rest of him makes a face at the smell of the smoke. 'It's about being beautiful. And no amount of practice'll give you that if you don't already have it.'

'Well, yeah,' says Bobby, who personally thinks Logan's talking bullshit but doesn't want the argument. He shifts on the balls of his feet. 'But these guys still have to pick up litter for cutting classes.'

He herds his detention group around Logan and on down the little gully behind the hall. Plenty of trash down here.

Bobby kinda thinks it's unfair that he has to supervise lunchtime detentions, because when you think about it, it means he has to suffer through the punishment too, for things he didn't actually do, but then he remembers that he did run for student body president and this responsibility will look good on his resume. His parents want him to do well 'even if the dancing thing doesn't work out'.

Bobby wants to do well too, but he has no intention of not dancing for a living. Well, shit like this will look good to dance companies too. Dancing is a day job like any other, and you have to be able to show you can work hard and take responsibility. And it's not like he has to do it every day. It's just that it's kind of boring.

Detention is how he meets John Allerdyce, though. And John is the catalyst for Bobby's senior year suddenly becoming a heck of a lot more exciting than he necessarily wanted.

***

'Have you _seen_ the new guy?' Marie asks Bobby over lunch one day, first week of term in the new year. She fans herself cartoonishly, making her white-streaked brown hair move despite the hot, still air around them. 'Smokin', I'm tellin' ya.'

Bobby rolls his eyes. It's the beginning of the school year, there's dozens of 'new guys', and new girls, for that matter. 'No,' he says flatly. 

'You will,' says Hank ominously. 'He's the definition of your type.'

Hank, despite being barely a week older than Bobby and not related to him in any way, decided to appoint himself as Bobby's big brother figure years ago. He disapproves of anyone he thinks Bobby likes, just on principle. Raven smothers a smile and keeps eating her fries.

'Agreed,' says Kitty. 'He's in my hip hop class. Complete asshat, but pretty. Bobby'll be panting after him by the end of the week.'

'Excuse me? I'm _right here,'_ Bobby points out. 'I don't have a 'type'. And I don't pant after people.'

'Sorry, sweetheart, but you do,' says Marie. She pats him on the hand. 'Remember Warren?'

'Or how about Alex?' suggests Raven, which hurts because Bobby thought she was on his side. 

'Professor Logan,' Kitty adds conspiratorially, and that's it, Bobby's done. He gets up from the table with his tray all ready to storm off in a huff - and then the bell rings. 

'Delinquents to supervise?' Hank asks. 'Is it your day _again?'_

'Yeah. Wish me luck,' Bobby says, saluting and going to dump his tray.

Raven blows him a kiss. 'See you in studio after the break?'

'You know it,' Bobby says, scruffing her hair as he passes. Everyone else waves or high-fives or tries to hug him as he walks away from the table. They're kind of dicks sometimes, but they're still his friends. 

***

Amongst the herd of teenagers who think they'll be better dancers for sneaking off and macking under the bleachers or whatever it is juniors do, is someone Bobby's age. 

'This is John Allerdyce,' says Professor Munro, who's waiting at the office with today's felons. 'He's new,' she says unnecessarily. 'I think you know the rest of today's group?'

John Allerdyce is blond, tall, lean, and staring angrily at his shoes. Marie was right, he is pretty damn hot. Bobby swallows. 'They're all familiar faces,' he says, smiling at Professor Munro. 'I think I can manage.'

'Thanks, Bobby,' she says, smiling at him warmly. 'Alright, you lot, you know the drill,' she says to the detentionees. 'Half an hour picking up litter, and then you're free.'

'Thought this was a school for dancing, not a fucking child slavery ring,' mutters John, five minutes into the half-hour. 

'Operative word there is 'school',' Bobby points out equally quietly. They're at the back of the group. The rest of his mob know the drill. They're heads-down, bums-up, getting on with the job. 'School equals you actually have to go to class and pay attention. What are you here for, anyway?'

'You mean here at the school for, or here in detention for?' John asks snarkily. 'Ballet, mostly. And expressing my opinion to Professor Grey. Mostly.'

Bobby's jaw clenches. Professor Grey is his main coach, and he likes her a lot. He doesn't like the idea of someone being rude to her. Underneath that, though, he's assessing John's physique again, critically this time, measuring him up against a barre. He wants to see how John would go if Bobby put him through his paces. 

'What's your thing, anyway?' John asks a moment later. 'Ballroom? Interpretive dance?'

Bobby debates about lying, but what's the point. 'Ballet,' he says, and waits to be told he's too heavy, too muscular. He's heard it before. 

John eyes him outright, blatantly trailing his eyes up and down like he's checking Bobby out. 'Huh,' is his only comment, though. 'Guess we're gonna have class together then, yeah?'

There's a bit of a flush to his cheeks, a sparkle in his eyes, but it's probably just him catching the sun. It's hot out here, after all. Bobby can't help but feel like he's being laughed at, somehow. Or possibly actually getting checked out. Which would be completely inappropriate because he's student body president and he's supposed to be supervising a detention right now.

'Guess so,' says Bobby as distantly as he can. 

In a flash the sparkle and the smile are gone. John scowls again. 'Jeez, I'm just trying to be friendly. What crawled up your butt and died?'

'Nothing. And you missed that candy wrapper,' Bobby adds, pointing it out with his foot. 

John says nothing much for the rest of their allotted time out here, except to swear at fourteen year old Armando Munoz and get a choice word or two in return, which Bobby pretends he didn't hear because he doesn't want to have to supervise another damn detention. 

'See you in class, ice princess,' is John's parting shot. 

Bobby stands pole-axed in the quad, feeling the angry blush crawl up his cheeks. He doesn't have a type and he doesn't pant after people, but his friends were right about two things. John Allerdyce is _smoking_. And a complete and total asshat. 

***

Professor Xavier is waiting in the studio along with Professor Grey when Bobby gets there, changed into his warm up gear, along with Sean, Angel and Raven; the rest of the senior ballet class. Thirty seconds behind them, John bursts in through the door too. 

'Good, now that we're all here,' Xavier starts, apparently happy to ignore the fact that his newest student is tardy, 'we can talk about the half-term recitals.'

'We will be assigning everyone in the senior class a partner. You'll choreograph and perform a short piece to music, together, and perform it in front of the school,' says Professor Grey. 'Preferably in a style or combination of styles that's out of your usual comfort zones, although you're welcome to incorporate elements from anything, including your specialisations. Yes, Angel?'

'How're you going to be assigning partners?' Angel puts her hands on her hips. She hates being told what to do.

Professor Xavier smiles at her. 'The purpose of the exercise is to challenge you,' he says. 'I anticipate that many of you will not like your assignments very much, to start with. It's the hope of the teaching staff that you'll all get past difficulties and work together with your partners to produce high-quality work. Carry on, Jean.'

He wheels himself towards the door. Professor Grey motions everyone towards the barre to start warming up. Professor Xavier pauses before he leaves, though. 'It's the nature of the job,' he says, 'that you will often have to work with people you personally might not like, or choose to socialise with outside of work. But you will still be expected to be professional and work with them. Consider this a taster of the world you are hoping to work in. You will get your assignments tomorrow morning.'

***

Bobby, as a senior, gets solo studio time on a Tuesday morning. This means he gets to spend a couple of hours working on technique by himself, away from anyone else who might take it upon themselves to make comment. He normally likes the opportunity to really make sure he's getting shit _right_ , to slowly iron out all the imperfections he can. But this means that he isn't going to find out who his assignment partner is until lunchtime. 

He tries to concentrate on his footwork and the lines of his body in the mirror, but he keeps drifting. What if they partner him with Emma Frost? If they're trying to challenge people … Emma and Bobby have danced together on and off since they were tiny, and he respects her as an athlete but he never wants to have to be on the same stage as her ever again. She takes competitive to a whole new level. 

Or maybe it'll be Pietro Maximoff. He only transferred here last year but he's already developing a reputation. He's hard to partner, by all accounts, although his sister, Wanda, might be worse. Or, God, what if they put him with Irene ...

Bobby isn't dumb enough to think they'll put him with one of his friends. He sighs a little bit over that - Raven, for one, or Marie - they know each other's footwork so well, it'd be a breeze. More than that, it'd be fun. But the Professor (there are lots of professors at this school, but only one of them is _the_ Professor) made it pretty clear that's not the point of the exercise. 

There's no point angsting about it, really. Bobby forces himself to focus on where his feet are, on his exercises, instead. What will be will be. He's going to be Zen about it.

When he checks the posted list on the assignments board, though, it says BOBBY DRAKE/JOHN ALLERDYCE, and Bobby does something he has never done before in a crowded school corridor, and swears audibly. 

***

'Nice of you to join us,' says John under his breath to Bobby at lunchtime. He snatches a cookie wrapper out from under Bobby's outstretched fingers. 'How's detention treating you, princess?

'Fuck you,' Bobby growls. 

'That's not very professional, partner.'

Professor Munro, who is not best pleased about having to lay on another detention especially for them, glares at them both. Bobby bites his tongue.


	2. lose the halo, don't need to resist

Studio mornings get turned into project time. They have six weeks until the recital, and they've got music to pick, choreography to hash out, and, of course, practice to do. 

'So, we're doing something tacky to pop music, right?' John asks, folding his arms across his chest. He's so damn _prickly_.

'Why do you say that?' Bobby asks, stalling. The sad thing is, he's kind of come to the same conclusion himself - but he wants to know what John's logic is.

John shrugs. 'Because we're both ballet dancers for preference, and they want us to do something different? And it's not like it's hard. Shove on some Rihanna and we're halfway there, aren't we?'

Bobby gapes. 'Isn't that kind of phoning it in?'

'It's taking the path of least resistance. I wanna get this over with, hotshot. I don't wanna have to teach myself the finer points of, I dunno, flamenco or whatever the fuck, in six weeks, just so you can get yourself an extra gold star.'

John starts to fumble in his bag, and then straightens up and tosses Bobby a memory stick. 'Here,' he says.

'What's this?'

'Music, dumbass. Have a listen, tell me what you think. You have a laptop, yes?'

Bobby's still wrong-footed and off balance. 'Yes,' he says. 'Right. I'll -'

But John isn't even listening any more, he's starting to stretch, long, lithe body glowing under the fluorescents as he strips off his hoodie to reveal a white undershirt and a set of lean, flat muscles that Bobby's jealous of at the same time as getting hot over.

He swears (under his breath this time) and grabs for his own backpack to retrieve his laptop.

The first song on John's shortlist for consideration _is_ frigging Rihanna.

John smirks.

***

'Our setlist sounds like a Top 40 DJ's wet dream, you don't think I deserve a little sympathy?' Bobby moans on Marie's shoulder.

Marie sighs. 'Honey, I'm very sympathetic, but it's been three weeks. You need to either suck it up, or go and complain to the Professor if it's not working out for you.'

'Or, third option,' says Kitty, popping up on Bobby's other side at the cafeteria table. 'Drink to forget.'

'Kitty,' says Marie warningly.

'Oh, c'mon,' Kitty pouts. 'Look. We can't just not invite him to the party.'

'What party?' Bobby asks, interest piqued despite himself.

'Oh, Marie and I were gonna throw a little mid-term masquerade on the fourth floor of the dorm, that's all,' says Kitty airily. 'Break the tension, that sort of thing. Have you _seen_ Peter and Pietro? They're about to strangle each other.'

Bobby frowns. 'But … they've always got on so well,' he says. 'I mean, they're both so easy going.'

'But Peter's about the same size and speed as continental drift and Pietro's incapable of sitting still,' Marie points out. 'They said they wanted to challenge us, but whoo-boy. Anyway, the point is there's a fair few seniors around this campus who need a stiff drink and to remember why they're friends, that's all.'

'So you _do_ think Bobby should come,' says Kitty triumphantly. 

'Who are you two partnered with, anyway?' Bobby demands. 'I've barely heard a freaking peep out of either of you.'

'You haven't exactly asked,' Kitty points out.

The bell rings.

'So when's the party?' Bobby asks, getting up to put his tray away. 'Soon? Please let it be soon.'

'Don't call us,' says Kitty, linking arms with Marie and starting to drag her away. 'We'll call you.' She makes a phone out of her hand and winks at him. 

Bobby has a student council meeting to chair. He sighs. Work, work, work. 

***

'This isn't fucking _working_ ,' Bobby pants, pushing himself away from John and back to the familiar territory of the barre, furious with … mostly with himself, actually, and kind of with the Professor and also a lot with John. 'It's not going to work, I don't know why we're even bothering -'

'Because you said it yourself, princess, it's school,' says John, resting easy in the middle of the floor, hands on his hips. Always so fucking poised, even after an hour and a half on his feet. He makes Bobby feel like a lumbering rhino. 'It's an assignment. Get over yourself, quit thinking this has to be art, and just get it done.'

'We're seniors, and this is a performing arts school,' Bobby retorts. 'Of course it has to be art, dickwad.'

John rolls his eyes. 'Oh, well, excuse me very much. Maybe if we were doing ballet, y'know, what we're supposed to be here for, I might agree with you, but miming grinding on each other at a chaperone-approved distance to Top 40 trash is not my idea of art. This is some bullshit trust-fall exercise and your beloved Professor is setting us up for some kind of lesson.'

'If that's what you think of it, why are you even bothering?'

'Because I love dancing, asshat.' John folds his arms across his chest and sighs. 'Because there's probably some reason behind them obviously wanting us to fail and I'm done playing mind-games. I just want to sit through the lesson, get the point, and leave. You're battering your head against this thing, but you're not going to break it. Just embrace the suckage and move on with your life. Because trust me, no-one is actually too good for Top 40 trash and people who think they are end up dancing on tables to it for a living.'

Bobby glares at him. John shrugs. 'Or you can just stay angsting about art in your ivory tower, whatever.' He stretches. 'I'm going to take a shower. You keep … doing whatever it is you do. I don't care. Just don't trip over my feet during the recital and we're sweet.'

He saunters off towards the changing rooms. 

'Y'know, he sort of has a point,' says Marie, from the main door. 'You're taking this kind of seriously, Bobby.'

'Yeah, well, some of us have to actually practice our routines. We can't all be flawless James-Dean-like golden boys who can turn up and dance like angels,' Bobby growls. Marie shakes her head at him. 'What?'

'Nothing.' She pulls him into a sideways hug, and then lets go and grimaces. (Bobby does stink, he knows, but _she_ grabbed _him_ , so this is her fault.) 'Go take a shower, sugar.'

***

Their routine continues to not-work, or at least, not work in the way Bobby wants. He hates it. It's stupid and formulaic and insipid and just fucking _lazy_ , and the thing that frustrates him the most about the whole shebang is that he can _tell_ John thinks the same thing but it doesn't seem to get to him. He just goes through the motions as choreographed and it's like it doesn't even bother him, having to shake his booty like being able to do it that well is something that came cheap. Like he hasn't worked like a dog to get that rhythm, that power and beauty that he's wasting on dancing so sloppily.

Bobby also hates the fact that he stands in the showers with his face against the tiles and the water turned to cold for a long time after every studio morning with John. He hates the carefully mandated distance between them when he's desperate to get physical the way the lyrics in the stupid music are telling him to. He finds himself spending his free periods doing work up on his toes just to have something else to concentrate on. 

It doesn't really work.

***

Bobby's feet ache and his head's a mess, which is probably why he can't sleep right now. He lies in bed and fumes for five whole minutes before he tells himself to get up. It's five thirty in the morning and he's awake, he might as well actually get up and get some practice in. It's Saturday, the clock radio's green display tells him, but what else does he have to do?

There's an unholy noise coming from his favourite studio when he gets there, though - thumping, thudding bass and drums, way louder and way, way rougher than anything you could really dance to.

Except when Bobby pushes the door open he can see John in the middle of the floor, and he is dancing to it. Moving to it, that perfect timing Bobby's been working around for weeks translating into a ballet - and it is ballet, every step, every rudiment - that's as jagged-edged and hard-nosed as the music he's performing it to.

Bobby stands in the doorway, transfixed. This - this is what they should be doing. This is perfect.

Then John notices him watching, and it screeches to a halt. He grabs a remote from under the barre and stops the music.

'Oh my god, do you ever take a freaking break?' John demands, dragging his fingers through his sweaty hair. 'Seriously? I can't even get half an hour to practice my own shit now, you're always gonna be on my ass?'

Bobby bites back a response about John's ass. 'You gotta give me that music,' he says instead, coming fully into the room. 'I need it. Is it a mix? Did you find it all, or is it from your last school, or what?'

John's staring at him like he's crazy. 'No, it's - it's just music, man, I dunno. Just stuff I like to warm up to.'

'You gotta give me a copy,' Bobby insists.

'Whatever, it's on my laptop.' John shrugs at a battered Dell in the corner of the studio floor. He stalks over to his bag and starts towelling his face, then pulls on a hoodie and some sweatpants over his gear. 'Take whatever you want, if it makes you happy. And then will you fuck off? In case you hadn't noticed, this is supposed to be the weekend and we are not actually contractually obligated to be joined at the hip.'

Bobby's gear bag has, thank Christ, a fucking USB in it. He fumbles around for a moment figuring out which way up to put the damn thing in the port on John's machine, and then just drags everything he can find onto it because John is all but tapping his foot impatiently.

'Thanks,' he says when the files have transferred.

'Whatever.' John stalks off.

Bobby's too busy digging in his bag for his own laptop to notice him leaving.

***

Turns out there's a whole new world of music out there Bobby's only just hearing about now. There's so _much_ of it and every descriptor or tag or genre seems to be a crazy, convoluted sinkhole of its own, subdividing and subdividing until every category contains just one single band on its own. He realises he's maybe gone a little far down the rabbit hole when he hits Hatebeak, a death metal band whose vocalist is an African Grey parrot, but there's just so much … and he can't help it. He's hooked. 

John's mix is _loud_ , but melodic. Bobby'd thought all music was melodic, but he's kind of learning that's not necessarily the case. But there's angry and then there's _angry_. But also there's intensely violently pretty, and angsty dressed up as angry, and angry that sounds sad, and bubblegum pop but with jangly guitars …

He spends the rest of the weekend on Youtube, with a pair of headphones clamped to his ears, and a notebook. He ignores the knocking at the door, Kitty yelling through the keyhole about all work and no play, and Hank's texts. He has a lot to do before Monday. 

***

'You are fucking nuts,' is John's first response after Bobby plays him the new music he wants to use. Bobby tenses, ready for a fight, starts mentally marshalling the arguments about _what really constitutes art anyway?_ and _who are they to tell us what's valid?_ , but then John shakes his head. 'But that Britney Spears track made me wanna throw myself out a window, so I guess this is better. You do realise we're like, two weeks out from the recital, right?'

'Yeah,' 

John stretches, his body lengthening in a way that shouldn't be possible. Bobby's mouth goes a little dry. 'Okay. Screw it. Let's blow their eardrums.'

The first time they run the whole thing through, Bobby's choreography is tighter, faster and more flowing than it was for the pop pastiche. And when the vocals are a wailing growl of _a lick of the lips and your grip on my hips is sick - sick- sick_ John's hands are right where he wants them, and Bobby's bending with it, and yes. This. He can't look away from the heat in John's eyes, half challenge and half hunger, but he knows that if he could see them from the outside right now, if this were a contest and he were a judge, they'd be getting tens across the board. 

The last trailing electronic heartbeat line of the last song dies out and John's nearly flat to the floor, a perfect graceful line with Bobby to steady him. The temptation to push him even lower and go with him, until they're body to body on the polished hardwood, is so strong. 

John blinks. 'Fuck,' he says thickly. 

'So. That worked, right?' says Bobby. His voice is weaker than he'd like. John pulls free, puts a safe and sensible and professional distance between them, grabbing for his water bottle. 

'Yeah,' he says. 'Yeah. That worked, princess.' 

***

At T minus one week, they're given the recital schedule. Bobby and John are, predictably, first up. The Monday morning slot. Bobby's got every spare minute he can find booked in the studio, and he bitches about it and John also bitches about it but neither of them is ever late and neither of them is ever shy about changing choreography to, y'know, better artistically reflect the tone of the music. If this reduces the space between them to less than the thickness of their shirts some moments, so be it. Bobby's seen professional fucking tango duos that felt less charged than his rehearsals with John, but then again, he wasn't involved in those tango routines. Whereas these practices, they're … they're real. They're howling music and a darkened studio and the fact that in that space, in those moments, he can actually give in to the wild, uninhibited, stupid things he wants to do. 

Well. Some of them. The ones that involve everyone keeping their pants on, at least. 

Anyway, the upshot is that when he surfaces in the cafeteria on Monday, all his friends think they’re fucking comedians. 

'Oh, you do exist,' says Kitty. 'I was starting to think you'd died. Or ascended to another plane of existence where pure artists like you don't have to interact with ordinary people like us.'

'I told you,' says Hank lugubriously to anyone who'll listen. 'I told you, the second he got a look at the new guy -'

'Oh, like you lot haven't been practicing your little butts off,' Bobby retorts, sitting down and stealing Marie's bread roll. 'Get over it.'

'It's not cool to just ignore all your friends, you know,' says Alex, looking pissy. 'You need better work/life balance, Bobby. By which I mean there should be, y'know, some balance.'

'Oh, screw you.'

'You wish.'

Raven slaps a hand over Alex's mouth and glares at Bobby. 'If you don't come to the party on Sunday, you're officially dead to us,' she says. 'Seriously. Social pariah. You'll have to found a nerd table just so you can have somewhere to sit.'

'I hate you,' Bobby informs her.

'That's fine. Hate me in person more often and maybe one day you can claim you have a social life.'

Bobby needs less sarcastic friends. But he also, probably, maybe, might need to listen to them too. Starting tomorrow, though, because he has rehearsal in like … shit, five minutes. He wolfs down Marie's roll, steals an apple from Hank, and gets up again.

'Don't forget to wear a costume, bitch!' is Kitty's parting shot.

***

Sunday rolls around and Bobby's hamstrings are killing him, he apparently only owns black shirts, and his 'costume' is a superhero mask Hank made for him out of pity. 

The party is basically taking up the entirety of the girls' floor of the dorms. It's massive, it's dark, and it's _loud_. The music pounds in Bobby's lungs as he forges his way through the corridors of revelry, looking for someone he can cling to socially. Bobby, as he always only remembers when he's in the thick of these things, is not really a party animal.

'Hey, man!' says someone from behind his shoulder. He turns, and from the hair and the height he's pretty sure it's Pietro Maximoff handing him a beer, but the guy's gone again before Bobby can even return the greeting. The beer is kind of shitty but then, when would they have the opportunity or budget to get good beer for a party like this? Bobby drinks it anyway, mostly because it's already in his hand. 

The second beer seems like a good idea, because the first one needs company, and Bobby thinks he sees a tall, lanky shape over in a corner that's probably Sean Cassidy, who's usually good company in a rowdy sort of way, so he pushes over there. The third beer he picks up on the way. It looked lonely. 

Bobby's halfway through pushing his way between the mass of sweaty, heaving, dancefloor that this stretch of hallway has turned into when he realises he recognises this song. It's one of John's. It's one Bobby didn't dare put on their setlist. It _pounds_ and Bobby's moving to it before he quite realises he's doing it.

'Well, look at you,' says a soft voice in his ear, purring, and Bobby starts clumsily. There's hands on his hips and someone with a shock of blond hair and a red, orange, and gold scaly mask is suddenly awfully close to him. 'I didn't have you figured for a Trent Reznor fangirl. Isn't this a bit naughty for you, school president?'

'Fuck you,' Bobby says, and the song finishes for him - _like an animal_.

The dragon smiles at him wickedly.

***

This started out as dancing, Bobby would swear to God, but now it's anything but - the guy in the dragon mask has him up against someone's door and Bobby's head is spinning and his dick is straining at the fly of the stupid tight jeans he let Marie talk him into buying a year ago and which he for some reason decided to wear tonight. He drops his hands from where they were looped around the dragon's neck to down low between them, scrabbling to unzip two pairs of jeans, hungry for skin. He doesn't want this fancy, just wants to get off, desperate to blow his load all over that leather jacket and that perfect tight belly.

How long has it been since Bobby let go? He doesn't even know.

'Fuck, yes,' growls the dragon. 'C'mere, wanted to do this for _weeks-_ ' and Bobby lunges forward to kiss him, to shut him up.

The kiss opens up into a nasty train wreck of hot, sloppy biting almost as soon as it starts - they're not leading and following, they're fighting. Bobby's got a choice; surrender the kiss and concentrate on the handful of dick he's finally got - or forget about that slick-smooth skin under his fingertips. And he just can't do that.

The kiss goes softer when Bobby curls his palm around the other guy's cock, both of them breathing out hard, shocked. Bobby squeezes just a tiny bit, starts to stroke, his thumb rubbing up and down his own dick teasingly.

 

'Jesus, _shit,'_ curses the dragon, hand scrabbling behind Bobby for a moment and then they fall through the door, Bobby hitting the floor hard with the other guy's weight on top of him. They both grunt with the impact, but while Bobby's reeling his partner's already working, kicking the door shut behind them, getting their pants off, and he hauls Bobby onto the bed, slotting himself between Bobby's thighs.

Bobby moans, and there's a short, hot, huffed laugh against his throat. 'That's right. You make all the noise you want. Not like anyone out there could hear you over this.'

The bass and the beat are thumping through the door - the rest of the song is pared away to just the rhythm, and Bobby falls into it, falls into this, clutches the body on top of him tight and ruts, rolls his hips, and just like that, they're dancing. Skin rides slickly-stickily where they're pushed together, grip and catch, release, their hands grappling for each other either side of the dragon's head, but it's okay. They don't need hands. Their bodies know how to do this, how to settle into this groove.

Bobby comes too fast, too hot, pure instinct, and the dragon shoves his hips bruisingly hard into Bobby's and does the same. They're a sticky, wet mess on some girl's bed and she’s probably going to be fucking pissed about it. 

'Hey,' says the other guy about five minutes after Bobby's started to have a mildly drunk freakout. He reaches up like he's going to pull his mask off and Bobby abruptly really, really doesn't want to know who the hell he's just come all over. 

'No, don't,' he says, panicked, and falls off the mattress flailing for his too tight jeans. He's out the door in thirty seconds. 

He pretends he doesn't hear the word 'princess' over the sound of whoever's currently on the stereo shredding their vocal chords.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ([Hatebeak](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatebeak) was a real band. You can't make this stuff up.)


	3. we like to move but we both don't need this

Bobby sleeps through his alarm. And his second alarm. And Hank all but battering down his door, apparently, or so Marie claims later. When he finally hauls his headachey, dehydrated, nauseous ass out of bed it's to realise that he fell asleep on the mattress last night without changing. He showers somewhere around lunchtime, stomach rebelling, pretending that he doesn't know what he's washing off his stomach and thighs. Pretending he doesn't remember. 

All the seniors are a bit worse for wear, and the Professor gives them all a moderately stern talking to, mostly about setting an example to the younger students. Apparently Logan had to bust in and shut the party down around two am. Bobby doesn't remember - he was long gone before then. He stares at his hands in his lap the whole way through the lecture, avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

'Hey, Bobby,' John calls out to him as the senior class leaves the assembly. Bobby ignores him, heading towards the cafeteria even though the thought of food right now is kind of sickening. 'Hey, Bobby. Bobby! _Asshole!_ ' and now people are starting to look, so Bobby turns, exasperated. 

'What?'

'Where were you this morning? I thought we had a final rehearsal?' John grabs him by the elbow - Bobby shakes him off, something feeling weird in his gut at the touch, something that wasn't weird last time they were in the studio. Because that's the last time John had his hands on Bobby, obviously.

'I slept in,' Bobby snaps. 'I thought you'd be glad to get out of it.'

'Fuck you, haven't I proved I'm just as into this as you are by now? C'mon, we've got an hour or so before the dress tonight, we can -'

'Get off me, John,' says Bobby. 'I'm not feeling well. I'll .. I'll see you at the dress rehearsal.' He pulls away, starts walking as fast as he can in the other direction, back towards his dorm room that smells of sweat and beer and unwashed clothes. 

John practically slams into him, like he knows Bobby's centre of gravity off by heart, and manages to get him toppled into an alcove in the wall of the building, half hidden from anyone walking past. 'Bullshit,' he growls. 'This is about last night, isn't it.'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

John's eyes narrow. 'I'm not sorry,' he says. 'Bobby -'

'I don't know what you're talking about,' Bobby says again, shoving John back. 'Get off me, you goddamn Neanderthal. I said I'll see you at the dress and I meant it. Can you at least pretend you're a fucking professional?'

John glares like he could set Bobby on fire with just a look, but he does back off. 

'You can pretend it didn't happen all you like, princess,' he says harshly as Bobby stalks past him. 'But like it or not, it did. And it was good, and it doesn't matter how much you want to act like you're the perfect student. I know you're just like me underneath.'

'Oh yeah?' Bobby breathes, turning back, too close and too late to change it. 'How?'

'Your body wants to move,' John says. 'You just wanna dance. And you can't help yourself, when you get going. So yeah, you're just like me.' He puts his hand on Bobby's hip. 'And you felt it too, last night.'

Heat floods Bobby's veins, he wants so badly to step into the pressure of John's fingers. He punches John in the face instead. 'Don't fucking touch me,' he says, breathing hard, shaking his fist out into sore fingers. He turns on his heel again and this time John lets him. 

***

Their dress rehearsal is a disaster. Bobby can't bring himself to speak, and John's bruised cheekbone glares at him, blood-dark and angry under the stage lights. The last person in the world Bobby wants to get his hands on right now is his dancing partner, but as soon as the music comes up they're at it. 

It's not a dance though, it's a fight. Bobby couldn't have choreographed it any better if he'd wanted them to spar, and over the way the bassline thuds in the auditorium he'd swear he could hear the Professor say something about stage combat. 

Afterwards, though, there are only worried looks from the staff who're assessing the dress rehearsal. It's the most uncomfortable Bobby has ever been on a stage. John won't look at him, Professor Munro's face is disappointed. He waits for feedback, breathing harder than he should be from the exertion, but all he gets is Professor Grey patting him on the shoulder and saying that the final performance will be fine. 

Bobby would like both the dress _and_ the performance to go well. All a bad dress means is that you're not prepared enough. 

***

Sleep won't come, no matter what Bobby tries. In the end he jams his headphones on and tries to listen to something to calm himself down, but all his old favourites sound insipid and all his new discoveries are too much of a reminder. At 3am he turns off his MP3 player and rolls over to stare at the wall. 

Eventually, he thinks, he must have slipped off, because when the alarm comes it startles him bad enough that he flails and almost falls off the bed. Then there's knocking at his door and Marie, pulling him out of his room and to the cafeteria in his pyjamas still. He does know he needs to eat, he's not a complete imbecile. 

'I thought you didn't get stage fright,' says Kitty over her pile of toast. 'Dude, you are taking this way too seriously. It's just a project.'

Bobby nods and agrees and keeps his head down. He's an idiot. He should never have - he should have just done the stupid pop thing and … and not cared. He shouldn't care about it now, either. But he still wants to do well and all he's got is a half-baked, under-rehearsed routine with a dancing partner who presumably hates him; and with good reason. 

By the time Bobby gets backstage to get ready he's in a furious, filthy mood with himself and the world. He punches the wall next to the dressing room. It hurts his knuckles. 

'Y'know, punching shit's a crappy coping mechanism,' says John drily. 'Not that I'm biased or anything.' Bobby turns around and John's at the mirror, dabbing something on his bruises. 'Professor Grey gave me some tips for stage makeup,' he says, when he catches Bobby watching. 'Although I kinda wonder if I should keep it. Pretend it's part of the narrative. A ballet should have a narrative, right?'

'It's okay, you don't have to talk to me,' Bobby says, shrugging off his shirt and reaching for his leotard. 

'Dude, I'm about to get up on stage with you, I think I need to talk to you.'

'Can't we just get this done?' Bobby asks.

All of a sudden, John's up in his face. 'Yeah, sure,' he says. 'Do you remember what you choreographed, Bobby? Remember how we've been practicing this -' and he pulls their bodies flush together, 'for weeks? Remember how you've been putting us up close and personal for your artistic whatever-the-fucks?'

'I do,' says Bobby, weakly. It's the understatement of the year. 

'You had to know it was me under that mask. You weren't that fucking drunk.'

'John - I - '

'I've been watching you watch me since I came to this fucking school. I know you don't approve of me and my attitude, but I thought at least … at least you liked the way I move.' He blushes, honest-to-God, blushes. But he doesn't back off. 'I wanna do more than just dance with you, Bobby.'

'I can't,' says Bobby. He feels so lame saying it, but he means it. He can't. 'I - I can't get distracted. And this whole thing - you, me, this _stupid_ project … it's been so fucking distracting. I can't keep my head straight around you. And I have to. I have to graduate, and get a job, and have a life, and -'

'- and how are you gonna have that if you can't let yourself be close to people?' John demands. 'Dancing is about passion, right? They tell us that over and over and over again, and it can mean a lot of things but, Bobby, one of the things it means is this.' 

He cups Bobby's jawline in both of his hands and kisses him, hard and insistent. It's not vicious, like at the party. It's deliberate. Bobby freezes, melts, turning his face up a little to slot them together better. He opens to it without even thinking, lets Bobby in. There's a rattle and a clatter as John hikes him up to sit on the dresser in front of the mirror and something, probably someone's hairbrush or stage makeup or something, falls to the floor. John muscles in between Bobby's thighs, his hands sliding down to Bobby's waist and Bobby now unashamedly groping John's ass - when there's an embarrassed cough from the door. 

'Uh, Professor Grey says curtain up in five?' says Marie, eyes as big as saucers. She flees before either of them can do anything, with a massive grin on her face.

John smiles against Bobby's cheek. 'We're about to become the next item on the grapevine,' he murmurs. 'Which mean you've got two options, princess. We have a horrendous public breakup on stage. Or you come out there with me, and we blow everyone's mind.'

Bobby hooks his heels around John's thighs. 'How about we go out there together, and blow their eardrums?'

John grins. 'I can work with that.'


End file.
